


From the OwO to the Oh No to the Lolorito

by IceBreeze



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other, POV Second Person, crack treated seriously I guess, i wrote this to exorcise my demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceBreeze/pseuds/IceBreeze
Summary: This story, like all stories, has a beginning in the same breath as it does an ending. It is your story. Your life, from the day you set foot in Eorzea until that still yet to be seen day where you can finally fucking die and saving the world becomes someone else’s problem. Your life, in all its shitty glory, and so you know it is not neat; it is not clean cut. It is a story that is better to observe than it is to experience, and you do not know when it starts; you do not know when it ends.You do not know when it starts, but you’d like to think that maybe, just maybe, it began like this: with you on the ground, accused of regicide you did not commit by people whose asses you had saved over and over again, Uld’ah falling to pieces around you. With him, across the room, his face hidden behind a mask.Or: A love story, at the speed of light.
Relationships: Lolorito Nanarito/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	From the OwO to the Oh No to the Lolorito

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in 40 minutes because the idea wouldn't leave me alone and i would really like it to. Enjoy i guess.

This story, like all stories, has a beginning in the same breath as it does an ending. It starts and it stops and starts again, feet dragging against the ground where a pen drags against the paper, an ink blot dried on paper as blood dries on your hands, the laborious beating of a heart that is made to hold all the troubles of the world. It is continuous, ever shifting, pages turning before they are finished and an endless sea of blank ones spread out before you. It is a story where a beginning signals an end signals a beginning, and it turns, and it turns, and it turns.

It is your story. Your life, from the day you set foot in Eorzea until that still yet to be seen day where you can finally fucking die and saving the world becomes someone else’s problem. Your life, in all its shitty glory, and so you know it is not neat; it is not clean cut. It is a story that is better to observe than it is to experience, and you do not know when it starts; you do not know when it ends.

You do not know when it starts, but you’d like to think that maybe, just maybe, it began like this: with you on the ground, accused of regicide you did not commit by people whose asses you had saved over and over again, Uld’ah falling to pieces around you. With him, across the room, his face hidden behind a mask.

With you, and him, and another shitty day amongst many.

After Ala Migho, after Doma, after these fights you never cared about and these people to whom you are a Hero before you are a person, you find yourself ... tired. Worn thin. There are wounds you have been carrying, scars that accumulate every passing day, and you have never had a chance to heal. You have never had a chance to rest, shuffling from one errand to the next with scarcely a thank you, because why would the Warrior of Light need a break; why would the Warrior of Light not want to do this or that?

(Sometime you wonder what would happen if you said no. If you looked them dead in the eyes when they asked you to do something and told them to fuck off. You wonder if they would listen.

The rest of the time you remember that no, they would not).

The sultana asks you to help her, as a friend. Is this what friendship is, you wonder; giving and giving and giving as they take and take and take, until you are left hollowed out, shoved into a mould that chafes against all you are, all you once were.

Still. She is one of the few you don’t mind helping, these days; one of the few who look at you and see something of the person below the title. So you help her, accompanying the merchant’s daughter from place to place and giving her your thoughts when asked. You help her arrange a meeting with him, with Lolorito, and play the part of a quiet observer as the two of them figure out their plans.

When it is over, when you ready your mount to escort them both back to the city, Lolorito comes up to you. His mask is still off, eyes glittering in the fading light of the sun, and it is strange to see and be seen. It is strange, to look at him and see a man rather than a mask.

It is strange, but not bad. Not really.

“Well now, Warrior of Light,” he says, “I am glad to see you have recognised the value of our partnership.”

The word _partnership_ lingers on his tongue, touched with promise; with meaning. You shiver, inspite of yourself.

“You can never have enough allies,” you say.

He smiles. Takes your hand in his own much smaller one and kisses it. “Quality, not quantity, my dear. Quality, not quantity.”

You flush. Your mount huffs. Romantic music starts playing in the background.

Three days later the two of you are married, and you take over the world one economy at a time.


End file.
